1. The Nature of Prose Fiction

Have you ever read a novel or a short story? What are your reading when you are reading a short story or a novel? A story, of course, that is the answer that you might give. That is a correct answer. A novel and a short story is actually a story about human being.

A novel or short belongs to prose fiction. Then, the next question is “What is prose fiction?” Notice the word fiction. What is fiction? Fiction means something imaginative, something which is not real; a thing that we imagine. While, prose means a composition in which an author presents or expresses an idea or an emotive condition such as happiness, sadness, anger, etc.

However, we cannot conclude that prose fiction presents an imaginative idea or emotive condition, because there is no imaginative idea. The fiction here refers to the story that we are enjoying when reading a novel or short story. Therefore, the person, the acting, the place, the event, and the time found in the story are in the author’s imagination.

Imagination does not mean that prose fiction is not a reality. What happened to the person of a story is imaginative; however, it is factual in the sense that it can be found in real life. When you are reading a novel, let us say, The Old Man and the Sea of Hemingway, you will find an old fisherman namely Santiago. He is a poor fisherman who cannot catch any fish successfully. This is an imaginative person, but in real life we can find such old man.

In this sense, Weimann (in Desan, et all 1989: 37)says that literature represent the reality of the society, that is politics, economics, nature, and even science. An author observes, experience, and absorbs the reality into his consciousness. Then through a process of creativity, he produces a novel or short story.

2. The Division of Prose Fiction

A. The Short Story

Short story is, as can be inferred from its name, is a story which is not long. However, it is not a story which is composed in short form, nor it is a long story which is condensed. A short story has some characteristics. First, it consists of approximately 2,000 words (Koesnoesoebroto, 1998: 11). Second, it has few incidents, few characters, settings, scenes. It means reading a short story does not take a long time; it develops only one or two characters with a limited event.

Reading the previous paragraph should not lead you to think that short story is a condensed novel. Unlike novel, a short story produces only a single effect; a novel, on the other hands, may produce a complex effect. This is because the scope and structure of a novel is often complicated by episodes and sub-plot; while a short story exploits a single incident, and a simple structure.

This is not to say that a short story is an episode of a novel. It is not a part of a novel, since has its own story, structure, setting, theme, character, and incidents.

B. The Novelette and the Novel

Novel and novelette are similar but not alike. They are similar in the sense that the principles applied in novel will be applied to novelette (Koesnoesoebroto, 1998: 18). A novelette is a short novel which contains of 18,000 to 40,000 words. Hence, it is shorter than a novel, a novel contain more than that number words found in novelette. A novel may contain over 100,000 words.

Novel and novelette are both story composed in form of prose. However, we should aware of the prose fiction which is not a novel and prose fiction which is a novel.

First, a novel is perceptual in the sense that what is narrated is based on the novelist’s perception of the reality. In the pre-writing activity, a novelist sees and hears the reality surrounding him. Through a reflection, he constructs his perception into imaginative events, person, time and place.

Secondly, a novel is structural. The novelist composes a novel structurally. The events, the characters, theme, are composed with the beginning, middle and ends. Through a structure, we can study the development of the story, the development of the main characters, and presentation of theme.

Thirdly, a novel is sociological in the sense that it is middle-class genre. Since a novel is in the written form, it can be only enjoyed by illiteracy or educated people. The theme developed in a novel can only be response by educated people.

Fourthly, a novel is mythic. It is mythic in the sense that it presents a main character as a hero. In Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea we can study how an old fisherman becomes a hero; he struggle alone in ocean against the wild sea and a big fish.

Fifthly, a novel is philosophical. A novel is philosophical means that the novelist develops a certain philosophical thinking or a philosophical climate. When reading the Old Man and the Sea, we can grasp a philosophical climate surrounding the main character. His struggle is actually a philosophical event, i.e. how an old man with limited physical power is fighting a strong big fish. He wins the fight, but he is defeated by the fate since he cannot enjoy the fish at the end. However, this has changed his neighbors’ perception that he is an unlucky person; they finally percept him as a hero.

Sixthly, a novel is subjective. Every novel has a subject matter which is developed through the story. Dorothy van Ghent (in Koesnosoebroto, 1998: 22) says that the subject matter of novels is “human relation in which are shown the directions of men’s soul.”

The last is that a novel is cultural in the sense that it expresses or reflects the cultural of its society. And English novel reflects the cultural of English people. We can study the way life of its people, their ways of thinking, the family relationship, and every aspect of culture. A novel can be more completely understood by exploring its people’s culture.

VARIETIES OF THE NOVEL

A. Historical Novel

This variety of novel is the reconstruction of life in the past time. The novelist uses history as the background of the story of love, heroic, adventures, etc. Robert Graves’ Cladius is an example of novel which uses the history of Rome as the background. In American Literature, there is Fenimore Cooper’s The Spy. In Indonesian novel, we have Untung Suropati byAbdul Muis.

B. Mystery or Detective Novel

This kind of novel brings us the story of the mystery of life. For instance the mystery of murder. Once, some people die mysteriously. Everybody is scared of being murdered. And then somebody is trying to find the murderer. In finding the murderer the detective has to do a lot of dangerous things. Finally, the murderer is found. The good example of this kind of novel is Agatha Christi’s novels.

C. Science Fiction Novel

This is a kind novel of novel the author in which mixes science and fiction to present a story. Kuiper (2012: 67) says that science fiction which is fantassy, but it is based on some aspects of science and technology and set the future. The ggod example of this type of novel is Jules Verne’s Landing on the Moon. This is about the human’s effort to land on the moon. The condition of the moon, the spaceship, and the astronauts’ conditions described in this novel is very scientific; it is scientifically real except the story which is fictional.

There are two awards given to the best science fiction, i.e. Hugo Awards and Nebula Awards (Kuiper, 2012: 68). The first one is awarded by World Science Fiction Society (WSFS). The first story teller who received this award was Hugo Gernsback (1884–1967), the founder of AmazingStories, the first magazine exclusively for science fiction. His name is honored to this award.

The second award is provided by Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA). This award is given to its member who produced amazing science story. The first Nebula Awards were given in 1965, and Frank Herbert’s Dune won the award for best novel. Nebula award is considered more prestigious than Hugo Awards which are voted by fiction fans.

Historical Development of the Novel

The novel has been the most popular literary genre in England since its emergence in the early eighteenth century. It is designed for the middle class—travel literature, diaries, annuals of piety and instruction criminal biographies. This era was characterized by the existence of books club and circulating library.

The philosophy at the time has been moved from the thought which said reality to be the universal truth to the thought which defined reality in the terms of individual and his sense impression. The individual gradually was considered the most important thing. This lead the people to a primary assumption that novel would report the actions of individual characters with detail sufficient and abundant to create the illusion of authenticity to the material fact of the everyday world. In other words, novel is often assumed to be realistic.

. Novels of this era were written in a variety of techniques. Yet they were kept in focusing on the presenting the real world and delineating the individualized characters acting at a given moment in a recognizable place.

A. Some Famous Novelist of 18th century

1. Daniel Defoe. His famous novel is Robinson Crusoe (1719) which presents the adventure of Robinson Crusoe in a remote land. Robinson Crusoe, the character in this novel, was considered to be realistic; the character was developed through causality that grows in the plot structure.

2. Samuel Richardson. His famous novels are Pamela (1740) and Clarissa Harlowe (1747-1748). These novels were developed through a series of letters. This technique is to make extensive analysis of characters as they think and feel. In terms of plot, Richardson discovered a titillating plot formula. This formula is known as “the principle of procrastinated rape” such as in Pamela in which the character who is a virtuous young housemaid whose honor is every day threatened by the son of his mistress.

3. Henry Fielding. Fielding was the first theorist of the novel with his definition of the comic epic which appears as a preface to his Joseph Andrews (1742).

4. Laurence Sterne who produced Tristram Shandy. This novel is an attempt to render life at the moment that is being lived. The structure of this novel is based on John Locke’s theory which says that association of ideas in the mind is an illogical process. Thus, anticipating the modern stream-of-consciousness technique. But, the chaotic as the novel seems to be, it is apparent not real chaos. The characters are Trastram and his—all creatures of fix ideas but as convincing the real persons. This phenomenon helped to make the novel popular success.

5. Tobial Smollett. He used exaggerated and distorted traits of human behavior to expose a crude and brutal society. His best novel Hunpry Clinker (1771) was his best novel. This is, according to some critics, a greatest epistolary novel in the English novel. It presents a picture of English life in the 1760s.

B. Novel of 19th century

The development of 19th century’s novel was marked by the major figures Jane Austen and Sir Walter Scott. Austen’s works are sometimes said to represent a feminization of Fielding’s variety of techniques and enormous world view. She had a smaller vision but many think and many intense. Her work Pride and Prejudice (1813) is a detailed presentation of world in fiction.

Sir Walter Scott, unlike Jane Austen, has a large and varied as reflected by his works. This novelist is considered to be the first successful one. His finest work is The Heart of Midlothian (1818). However, his other works, The Bride of Midlothian (1819) and Ivanhoe (1819) remain popular even today.

The other novelists are William Makepeace Thackeray, Charles Dickens, Anthony Trollope, and Charlotte and Emily Bronte. They are typical Victorian Novelists.

The second half of the nineteenth century was marked by the publication of Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary (1875) in France, Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace (1862-1869) in Russia, and Nathaniel Hawthorne’ The Scarlet Letter (1850), Herman Meville’s Moby-Dick (1851), and Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn (1884), and Stephen Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage.

The historical development of the twentieth century was marked by Thomas Mann and Frans Rafka in Germany, Marcel Proust, Albert Camus, and Andre Gide in France;Joseph Conrad, Virgnia Woolf, James Joyce, and D. H. Lawrence in England; William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway in USA.

The Novels of this century are characterized by technique of writing which is fully achieved by the author achieved in conscious aesthetic and deliberately and experimental. In this sense Richard M. Castman in his book A Guide to the Novel says that the novel should be dramatic than assertive art. Twentieth novels are denser than its predecessors, more poetic, evocative, suggestive, metaphoric, and difficult.

Novel of 20th Century

Novels written in in this century were influenced by the First World War which led the British into the disappearance. E.M. Foster is a novelist who was influenced by this situation. His first novel Where Angel Fear to Tread (1905) brings us the story about his view value of the British society at the time.

In his A Passage to India (1924), his tells about English people in India who behave in traditional ways and are unable to see the inner true of the events. He also shows that people may succeed in a terms and fail in another one. Thus, unsuccessfully-making money people might be successful in another aspect of life. He seems to reject the money-oriented view.

The other novelist of this century is Arnold Bennett. His novels present characters that live in an area of industrial. His novel The Old Wive’s Tale (1908) two sisters, one is dependent and the other is independent. The first one is depend on a man who the leaves in Paris without money and help. The other sister stays at home and marries a man who works for her father’s shop.

H.G. Wells’ novel also talks about characters from lower level. However, most of his characters are living in happiness. His Kipps (1902) and The History of Polly (1910) are about people who work for shop. They succeed to make money and hence they are happy. His other novel is scientific novel. The Time Machine (1895) in is novel bringing the story of a machine that takes people travel through space and time. His other works are The First Men on the Moon (1901) and Ann veronica (1909),

Then we come to Somerset Maugham. This is also a very productive novelist. His first novel was Lisa of Lambeth (1897) which figure out the realistic life of slum, a city area with poor and dirty living condition, Human Bandage(1915) is about the hardship and difficulties if his life. His other novel is The Moon and Sixpence (1919).

The other novelist is D.H. Lawrence. He is a novelist who thought that a novel must show how individual‘s view of his life is affected by convention of language, family, and religion. Novelist must show that people and their relationship keeps changing. These views are reflected in his novels such as Son and Lovers (1913), The Rainbow (finished in 1915), and Women in Love (1916).

James Joyce, who was born and educated in Ireland, was also a great English novelist. He wrote novel and short stories. His first short stories published as Dubliner (1914) are realistic story and carrying deep meaning. In his The Dead he tells about a husband’s self-satisfaction when discovering his wife’s love for a dead man’s body. In his A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) he revealed himself as a young man in the impersonated in a hero named Stephen Dedalus. His other work is Ulyses (1922). This is the most considerably English novel of the twentieth century.

Then we come to a woman novelist, Virginia Woolf. Her characters are the reflection of many types of people in many situations. Her novel To the Lighthouse (1927) is about a family on holiday in Scotland in September 1910. The character of this novel is James Ramsay wants to go the lighthouse by boat but is prevented by his father. He finally goes by boat; however, he starts to hate his father. Her other works are Orlando (1928), and The Waves (1931).

Another English novelist is Graham Greene. He has written many books which can be divided into two kinds—serious and entertainment books. His serious novels are about failed people. This is philosophically since this failed people are who very nearer God’ on the other hand ones who re away from God are more successful. His famous novels are Brighton Rock (1938) and The Power and the Glory (1940).

Another English novelist of 20th century is Iris Murdock. He wrote novels with the subject of the attempt of people with religious life. He creates two kinds of characters, i.e. people with strong aim and unable to notice anything else; and those who are without settled fixed pattern of life still wants to make changes. His famous novels are Severed Head (1961), Under the Net (1954), and The Black Prince (1954).

We also have the greatest comic novelist, Evelyn Waugh. Most of his characters are very satirical, comically unsympathetic, cruelly described. His novel Decline and Fall (1928) is about a young man’s innocence and the world’s dishonesty. His onther novels are Scoop (1937), Brideshead Revisited (1945), Men at Arms (1952), Officers and Gentlemen (1955), and Unconditional Surrender (1961).

The Elements of Prose

A story is composed as a totality, in the sense that it must be comprehended as a unity. Elements of prose are constructed by the author in order that the reader may understand a story. However, every element is not standing on its own. Since a story must be understood as totality, all of the elements work together to construct a good story.

PLOT

Plot is one of the elements that compose a story. It is a technical term that refers the series of event in a story. The events are arranged in time and causality, hence it must be arranged logically. (Koesnosoebroto, 1988: 28).

So, what is the importance of plot? Robert and Jacobs (1987: 87) say that plot is a plan or groundwork of a story. In the plot every event is related logically. Thus, we cannot have a story without plot.

However, plot is not a sequence of events, it is arranged in cause and effect relationship. Thus, a story, “The king died and then the queen died” is not a qualified plot. It will be qualified if it is arranged as cause and effect like “The king die and then queen died of grief.”

Plot is developed through conflict (Robert and Jacobs 1987: 87). Conflict might be, in elemntal for, is the opposition of two people who might argue, fight each other, etc. Conflcit also might be psychological. When a person is facing a dilema, then s/he is in psychological conflict, i.e. the conflict of two severe choices.

In short, plot is a device by which an author composed the story in pages in words. Thus, it has a function. The function of conflict is to draw the reader’s interest. When s/he becomes interested with the story, then curiosity will arise and so the reading activity will be continued. The reader might have questions such as “Why does the character acts like that? What will happen after this?”

Conflict in plot might be clear in the following example:

John and Jane meet at school and they fall in love. They go together for two year, and they plan to marry, but the problem arises. Jane wants to develop a career first, and after marriage she wants to be an equal contributor the family. John understands Jane’s desire for a career, but he wants to marry first and let her continue her studies afterwards in preparation for the goal. Jane believes that this solution will not work, insisting instead that it is a trap from which she will never escape. This conflict interrupts their plans, and they part in regret and anger. Going their separate ways even though they still love each other, both marry other people and build their lives and careers. Neither is completely happy even though they like and respect their spouses. Many years later, after they have children and grandchildren of their own, they meet again. John is now a widower and Jane has divorced. Their earlier conflict no longer being barrier, they marry and live successfully together. During their marriage, however, even their new happiness is tinged with reproach and regrets because of their earlier conflict, their increasing age, the lost years that they might have spent with each other. (Roberts &Jacobs, 1987: 88-89)

Can you find a conflict in that story? Notice how the conflict initiated which lead to the separation of John and Jane which leads them to marry another other people. However, their marriage is also in conflict which then leads them to divorce.

What causes the conflict? That is the question that you might have. Notice how John proposes marriage to Jane, and Jane’s responds. Jane agree to marry, however, she wants to develop her career first. However, John wants to marry first. This is source of conflict.

Conflict may be external and internal. The conflict between John and Jane in the previous example is external. External conflict may be political conflict, social conflict, conflict whithin family, etc. It is called external conflict because it is between a person and something external.

Internal conflict is also known as psychological conflict. It is internal because it is a conflict whithing a person. When a person has dilemma, then s/he has a psychological or internal conflict. A man who has has to choice, between marrying Jane and marrying Deborah is in internal conflict.

The Kinds of Plot

Koesnosoebroto (1998: 38-46) explains three kinds of plot, i.e. plot of fortune, plot of character, and plot of thought.

A. Plot of Fortune

This type of plot consists of the action plot, the pathetic plot, the tragic plot, the punitive plot,

1. The action plot. This is the most common and the sole interest lies in what happens next.

2. The pathetic plot.in this plot, the reader may have a sympathetic with the protagonist since s/he undergoes misfortune through no particular fault if his own. The novel plot of The Old Man and the Sea might be categorized in this type.

3. The tragic plot. In this plot, the protagonist has a misfortune that lead him or her to the tragic condition, i.e. death. This kind of plot might found in drama such as Oedipus the King, Antigone, Othello, Romeo dan Juliet.

4. The Punitive plot. In this plot the character is punished due to his or her evil action. The novel might be categorized composed in this plot is Doctor Faust.

5. The sentimental plot. This is the plot in which the character changes in fortune for the better. In this plot, the character survives the thread of misfortune and comes out all right at the end. The final effect of this plot is joyous at the sight of virtue receiving reward. The good example of this plot is in Tom Jones. In this novel sentiment is crossed by laughter.

6. Admiration plot. In this plot the character’s change in fortune for the better which is caused some effects. Here the characters gains primary honor and reputation; the reader will admire him. The character’s hopes are fulfilled, as in sentimental plot. However, the reader’s respond is respect and admiration. The good example is Tom Sawyer.

A. Plot of Character

1. The Maturing Plot. In this plot, the character develops his/her behavior which at the end of the story gains a better behavior. In other words, the character that has a bad behavior is experiencing a maturation process and at the end s/he gains the better condition.

2. The reform plot. This is similar to maturing plot; the protagonist change for a better life. He is doing wrong and he knows it. His weakness, however, causes him to be away from what he considers to be the proper behavior. The reader feels impatience with this process. The character does some mistakes. This is different from maturing plot in which the reader pity the protagonist, in this plot this feeling is lacking.

3. The Testing Plot. In this plot, the character has a dilemma. He is sympathetic, strong, and purposeful character and pressured by dilemmas. He has to choose, between loosing his nerve and taking the bribe. The reader feels that he must give up and save his neck. He is being tested in this plot; every choice has its consequence. The Good example of this plot is Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.

4. The Degeneration plot. In this lot, the character, at the beginning is very sympathetic character. He is full of ambition. Then he has a problem of choosing between picking up his ambition, or giving up. He is confused, and finally chooses the second choice. The good example of this plot is found in Chekov’s Ivanov and The Seagull.

B. Plots of Thought

1. The Education Plot. This a plot in which the protagonist is processing a change for a better conception, beliefs and attitude. However, this plot does not continue to show the beneficial of the change. This can be found Leo Tolstoy”s Death of Ivan Illich.

2. The Revelation Plot. In this plot, the character changes. However, unlike the previous explained plots, character in this plot is changing from ignoring the essential facts of his situation to recognizing. In other words, the character this is process of the character to find the truth before coming to the decision. Story composed in this lot is The Green Fly by a Hungarian author, Kalman Milkszath.

3. The affective plot. In this plot, the character change involves the feeling, pleasant or unpleasant, happy or unhappiness.

4. The Disillusion plot. The character in this plot changes from positive to negative. He loses his faith or positive behavior or attitude after being subjected to loss, thread, or trial.

The Structure of Plot

Previously it has been explained that plot is the arrangement of events in novel or short story. However, it should be understood that the events were arranged in cause and effect; therefore, it must structurally constructed. Generally, plot is structured in the beginning, the middle, and the end. This is elaborated in the following sequence:

1. Exposition. In this sequence, the author exposes the main character, their background, characteristics, and everything that is considerably important information which will lead the reader to the next sequence.

2. Complication. This is the beginning of the conflict between characters. The protagonist and antagonist start to raise conflict.

3. Crisis. This is the turning point which separates what has gone and what will come after. In this stage, the character decides an act to resolve the conflict. The consequences of the decision result in the climax level.

4. Climax. This is the high point in action. The conflict reaches the climax level and becomes inevitable. In this is this point, the character must take an action which will determine the resolution of this story. In The Old Man and the Sea, the climax is when the main character is struggling to bring the bid fish that he has caught. He must struggle against the other fishes that eat his fish.

5. The resolution. This is the conclusion of the story. In The Old Man and The Sea, the resolution is when the old man finally arrived at the beach with the skeleton of his fish. His big fish has been eaten by the other fishes. The people now changed their vision to him. They admire at his bravery and strength to sail alone.

The structure of the plot is clear in the following figure:

Climax

Figure 1. The Structure of Plot

Complication

Resolution

Crisis

Exposition

CHARACTER AND CHARACTERIZATION

Character might be defined as the agent of story. It might be human or non-human. We can categorize character based on the development and the role. In terms of development, character might be categorized of flat and round character. In terms of role, we have protagonist and antagonist.

Flat character is a simple character in the sense that it only develops a dimension of his life. However, in reality, we can hardly this type of person; human is a very complex creature which cannot be understood in one side of his life.

Round character is more complex; it is multi dimensions. Take Gatsby, the character in Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. He is known as rich man, who always makes party in his house. However, he is a multi-dimension person. In the past, he was a poor soldier; even he could not buy his own cloth. He was in love with a girl namely Daisy. However, since he was a poor man, Daisy married a very rich man. This leads Gatsby to have a dream of being a rich man. He does a lot of illegal business and then becomes a rich; his dream comes true. This is a very complex development of a character namely Gatsby.

Another example is Hemingway’s character in his novel The Sun Also Rises. This is about some expatriates who are lost spiritually due to the war. The main character, Jake, is a suffering man. He used to participate in war and was injured in his groan and so cannot marry. However, this is not only his experience; his travelling through Europe indicates that he is a multi-dimensional man.

Protagonist is the central character. The theme developed in a story is presente through the development of this character. In other words, the story is about this character. Thus, the theme develope through a story is about protagonist. Thus, when a story is about the ambition of being rich, as in The Great Gatsby, the protagonist will do a lot of thing in order to be richAntagonist is the character who is against the protagonist. Usually, the conflict developed in a story is between the protagonist and antagonist. In The Great gatsby, the conflict is between the protagonist Gatsby Daisy’s husband, Tom Buchanan.

Both characters in term of character’s development and role is clear in the following figure:

Flat Characters

B. 1

Protagonist

C 1

Character

A

In Terms of Character’s Development

B

In Terms of

Character’s Role

C

Antagonist

C 2

Round Character

B 2

Figure 2: The Kind of Character

When we are reading a story, we dealt with a character, i.e. what he does. When reading a story, we are making characterization. We do some activities when doing characterization:

1. Judgment. This is when we a character is doing an immoral thing, such as spill a drink, talk too loudly, and make inappropriate or rude remark.

2. Drawing conclusion, for instance when reading a story of a man and woman who are involved in a very close conversation, you will conclude that they have a very close relationship..

3. Discovering something, like when you find why someone acts certain thing. (Card, 1988: 4)

In short, character is the agent of story, i.e. human or non-human that plays role in a story. In doing characterization, we are dealt with what the character doing, what the character looks like.

The Method of Presenting character

In presenting character, an author might apply some methods. Here are some of them:

1. Discursive method

In this method, the author explains the aspects of character directly. Read the following taken from Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.

“He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first forty days a boy had been with him. But after forty days without a fish the boy’s parents had told him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is the worst form of unlucky, and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish the first week. It made the boy sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty and he always went down to help him carry either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and the sail that was furled around the mast. The sail was patched with flour sacks and, furled, it looked like the flag of permanent defeat.

The old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck. The brown blotches of the benevolent skin cancer the sun brings from its reflection on the tropic sea were on his cheeks. The blotches ran well down the sides of his face and his hands had the deep-creased scars from handling heavy fish on the cords. But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.”

Notice how the author describes the main character. He explains the old man’s activity, what he does, how he fishes unsuccessfully, how the society views him as an unlucky man, his physical appearance, and his relationship with a boy. Hemingway presents his character through discursive method.

2. Through Dialogue

Dialogue can be found in novel and short story, not only in drama. In novel, it is used to present the communication between characters. However, it is also used to present the character. The reader can infer the type of character by noticing the character’s words. What the character says, his diction, reveal what he thinks, his behavior, and his attitude toward something. Notice the following dialogue taken from the same novel:

“Santiago,” the boy said to him as they climbed the bank from

where the skiff was hauled up. “I could go with you again. We’ve

made some money.”

The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy loved him.

“No,” the old man said. “You’re with a lucky boat. Stay with them.”

“But remember how you went eighty-seven days without fish

and then we caught big ones every day for three weeks.”

“I remember,” the old man said. “I know you did not leave me

because you doubted.”

“It was papa made me leave. I am a boy and I must obey him.”

“I know,” the old man said. “It is quite normal.”

“He hasn’t much faith.”

“No,” the old man said. “But we have. Haven’t we?”

“Yes,” the boy said. “Can I offer you a beer on the Terrace and

then we’ll take the stuff home.”

“Why not?” the old man said. “Between fishermen.”

The dialogue is between the old man and the boy, the old man’s only friend. This reveals the boy’s attitude toward the old man. The boy never thinks that Santiago is an unlucky man, that he wants to go with Santiago to the sea. But the old man does not allows him. Notice the boy’s words, “I could go with you again. We’ve made some money,”, “But remember how you went eighty-seven days without fish and then we caught big ones every day for three weeks.”. Notice also how he criticizes his father’s attitude toward the old man, “He hasn’t much faith.”

To conclude this session, dialogue is a method of presenting character on of novel or short story. Noticing the words spoken by the character, we can infer their characterization, their behavior, and their attitude toward something.

3. Toward another character’s Words.

Not only in a prose is fiction, in reality it quite normal when somebody talks about another person, i.e. judging, persecuting, gossiping, etc. In the above dialogue, the boy is talking about his father, his disagreement with his father’s father attitude to the old man.

The other example is from The Sun Also Rises by the same author:

Robert Cohen was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton. Do not think that I am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to Cohn. He cared nothing for boxing, in fact he disliked it, but he learned it painfully and thoughtfully to counteract the feeding of inferiority and shyness he had felt on being treated as a Jew at Princeton. There was a certain inner comfort in knowing he could knock down anybody who was snooty to him, although, being shy and a thoroughly nice boy, he never fought except in the gym.

The main character of this novel is the first person I, who presents the other character namely Robert Cohen. Robert Cohen, as explain by this character, is a Jew at Princeton who learned to box in order to knock down everybody who was so snooty to him. This first person character does not talk about himself, but another one namely Robert Cohen.

4. Through Setting

Setting refers to the background of the story, both time and space. This can be used to infer the kind of character. For instance, the setting of sleeping room, the owner of clean and neat sleeping might be different from the owner of the dirty and mass sleeping rom.

5. Through the Character’s Words

What a character says may reveal his characteriztion. In The Old Man and the Sea, Santiago often talks to himself when he is alone in the middle of the night:

“I wish the boy was here,” he said aloud and settled himself against the rounded planks of the bow and felt the strength of the great fish through the line he held across his shoulders moving steadily toward whatever he had chosen.

Notice his words, “I wish the boy here.”

This indicates that the old man is lonely, that he needs the other people to help him.

Motivate

Observing people act and talks in reality, we often ask questions to ourselves, such as, “Why do they behave like that?” Or, “What makes him/her says those words, do that, etc?” When asking these questions, when are curious about the motive.

Everybody has his own motive in doing something. The guy at the party who spills a drink and talks loudly and rudely might have motive of drawing attention, or to release their depression due to certain problem.

Characters in a novel or short story are actually the representation of real people. Their words and act must be based on certain motive. Daisy’s motive of marrying Tom Buchanan instead of Gatsby is richness rather than love. When Gatsby comes as a rich man, even richer than his husband, then she tries to develop a relationship with Gatsby. In The Old Man and the Sea, the motive of the old man to sail and to catch fish is for self-actualization, i.e. he is not a salao or unlucky old man as the people think of him.

What is the character’s motive of doing certain act? It might be economy, a dream of being rich, love, revenge, self-actualization, religious motive, etc. Gatsby’s motive of being rich is to win Daisy’s heart and so it is motive of love. Santiago’s motive of struggle to catch big fish in the middle of the sea is self-actualization.

How to know the motive? Again, we should refer to the method of presenting character by which we can do the characterization. In The Sun Also Rises, we can conclude that Cohen’s motive of doing boxing is to knock down anybody who is snooty to him. Or, we should read the story from the beginning until the end. At the end we can conclude what makes the character act certain thing.

Scene or Setting

It is explained previously that setting is an element of prose which can be used to determine the type of character. Event in a story, as in reality, of course takes place and time. The questions that often rise are when, where, who, and how? Setting is much more dealt with the questions when and where. The question now what is setting? Kuiper (2012:8) explains that setting is the environment that determines the fictional character’s makeup behavioral and personal dynamic. In other words, it is the milieu in which determines the character’s development through the story.

Why setting determines the character’s development? Normally, character develops in society condition; it is clear in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. The character of this novel, Jake who was suffering due to the war in America travels in Europe. In Spain he watches the bullfight. It is informed that he participated in the war and got wounded in his groin. This makes him miss his manhood that leads him to the inability to marry his girlfriend, Brett. This makes him frustrate and travel and drink a lot and watch bullfight in Spain.

Setting can be inferred as the background of a story, which can be time or space. In The Old Man and the Sea, the setting is in beach area in Cuba, in which the old man lives. In The Great Gatsby, the setting is New York, a place in USA, in 1950s when American had the so-called American dream, i.e. a dream of being rich.

The social setting can inform us some important thing. It informs us the social condition of the society, their economy, religion, culture, and any other things. Understanding the character’s behavior will be better if we explore this condition. Why does the old man want to catch big fish? Why does Gatsby want to be rich? These questions can be answered well by exploring the social setting of the stories.

In short, setting is the background of the story. It determines the character’s development, and becomes one of methods of character presentation.

Point of View

Point of view is a technique of telling story. It can be the first person or the third person. The author who applies the first person point of view use the first person singular I. It does not mean that it is himself; however, it is a technique of telling story. In this point of view I is the narrator and involved in the story. Read again the quotation taken from Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. I is the character who is playing important role in the story, and at the same time he is one of characters.

Notice the following example taken from Marshall’s Bad Thing:

Ted came and found me a little after seven. I was behind the bar, assisting with a backlog of beer orders for the patrons out on deck while they waited to be seated. The Pelican’s seasonal drinks stationis tiny, an area in front of an opening in the wall through to theoutside, and Mazy and I were moving around it with the grace oftwo old farts trying to reverse mobile homes into the same parking space. There’s barely room for one, let alone two, but though Mazyis cute and cool and has as many piercings and tattoos as any youngperson could wish for, she’s a little slow when it comes to grindingout margaritas and cold Budweisers and Diet Cokes, extra ice, nolime. I don’t know what it is about the ocean, and sand, but it makespeople want margaritas. Even in Oregon, in September.

Is the first person always the major character? No, it is not always. Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby applies the first person, but it is not the main character. The main character is Gatsby, whose acting is told by the I.

The second technique is the third person. In this point of view, the narrator is absent in the whole story since the story of about the third person. The character is recognized by his or her name, or by the singular personal pronounces he or she. The good example is Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. The third person involved in this story is the Old Man, while the narrator is absent in the story.

From what point of view does the author tells the story? This can be answered by reading the novel or short story itself. Notice whether or not the narrator I is involved in the story, or whether the author present the third person as the character. This is a good way of recognizing the point of view as the narrative technique.

Theme

Theme is the the idea of a story. It is first reason of an author to write (Robert & Jacobs, 1987: 318). When an author is planning to write, he has an idea to be comunicated communicated. When reading a story, we often have some questions, such as what is the story about? Or what does the story mean? This question refers to the idea or theme of a story. Finding theme, we should read the whole story, from the beginning to the end.

Unlike theme of article which is stated directly, theme in story is stated indirectly. An author will exploit the aspects of story to present his theme. In other words, every aspect of story, plot, action, character, symbol, dialogue is arranged to establish theme. What the character does, what he says, etc. are the symbol of theme. Thus, when the old man is sailing alone and catching a big fish successfully, is the symbol of man’s struggle to gain a success. Gatsby’s action of doing illegal business is meant to present the idea of the dream to be rich.

How to find theme? It is discussed previously that all the elements of story are meant to established theme. Hence, we can find theme by exploring all of the elements. We must be able to relate the elements to each another.

Based on above paragraph, here are some keys. First, theme stated directly by the narrator. Narrator is the person who narrates the story, or the author’s unnamed speaker. In some stories, we often find the narrator who states the theme or tells the reader the idea of the story.

Second, theme stated by character. Character, first person of the third person, expresses his feeling idea. The Old Man often says “Every day is a new day.” This is meant that he hope a success, a new success. This is also the symbol of spirit of being successful despite his old age.

Third, theme stated through figurative language. The author often applies figurative language to present some important ideas. This is applied by the author in order to draw the reader’s attention, or to bring impression to the reader of its importance. The reader then will recognize it as an important statement of the theme.

However, the complete theme is represented by the work itself. It has been discussed previously that all the elements are the presentation of the theme. Thus, we can still recognize the theme or idea by reading the entire story although it is not stated directly. In other words, theme is often stated directly; it is implied the story itself. Thus, we have to read the entire story in order to recognize the theme.

Take, The Old Man and the Sea as an example. Santiago’s statement that every day is a new day may symbolize the hope. However, it is not an adequate recognition of the theme. When we read that the people underestimate him at the beginning, finally come to the end of the story in which he finally catch the big fish successfully, but brings it unsuccessfully to the beach, and the people admire his braver and ability to catch the fish, we then can infer that the theme is the hope of success in gaining self-actualization.Santiago’s adventure in the middle of the sea symbolizes the struggle for self-actualization.

Tone

Tone is the author’ attitude that reveals in the story. The attitude might be symphatic, anger, ironyetc. A reader hopes that the tone come across to the reader.The attitude is reflected by the story as a whole. The reader should be aware the elements of story, i.e. character, plot, setting, and the language use. Consider the novel The Old Man and The Sea. All the elements of the prose applied in this novel reveals Hemingway’s attitude to his main character, Santiago. The boy’s attitude toward Santiago, the people’s attitude to him at the beginning and the end of the story, the old man’s words when talking alone in the middle of the sea, all reveal the author’s attitude.

What is the importance of recognizing the tone? It is to grasp the theme of the story, the message. By recognizing Hemingway’s tone in The Old Man and the Sea we can recognize that he wants to tell us the vitality of man, the need of being recognized as hero.

To conclude, tone is an important aspect of prose fiction which is revealed by the story as a whole. It is reflected by the elements of prose and readers need to recognize it to find the theme.

Chinua Achebe

THE SACRIFICIAL EGG

Julius Obi sat gazing at his typewriter. The fat Chief Clerk, his boss, was snoring at his table. Outside, the gatekeeper in his green uniform was sleeping at his post. You couldn't blame him; no customer had passed through the gate for nearly a week. There was an empty basket on the giant weighing machine. A few palm-kernels lay desolately in the dust around the machine. Only the flies remained in strength.

Julius went to the window that overlooked the great market on the bank of the River Niger. This market, though still called Nkwo, had long spilled over into Eke, Oye, and Afo with the coming of civilization and the growth of the town into a big palm-oil port. In spite of this encroachment, however, it was still busiest on its original Nkwo day, because the deity who had presided over it from antiquity still cast her spell only on her own day—let men in their greed spill over themselves. It was said that she appeared in the form of an old woman in the centre of the market just before cock-crow and waved her magic fan in the four directions of the earth—in front of her, behind her, to the right and to the left—to draw to the market men and women from distant places. And they came bringing the produce of their lands—palm-oil and kernels, kola nuts, cassava,mats, baskets and earthenware pots; and took home many-coloured cloths, smoked fish, iron pots and plates. These were the forest peoples. The other half of the world who lived by the great rivers came down also—by canoe, bringing yams and fish. Sometimes it was a big canoe with a dozen or more people in it; sometimes it was a lone fisherman and his wife in a small vessel from the swiftflowing Anambara. They moored their canoe on the bank and sold their fish, after much haggling. The woman then walked up the steep banks of the river to the heart of the market to buy salt and oil and, if the sales had been very good, even a length of cloth. And for her children at home she bought bean cakes and mai-mai which the Igara women cooked. As evening approached, they took up their paddles again and paddled away, the water shimmering in the sunset and their canoe becoming smaller and smaller in the distance until it was just a dark crescent on the water's face and two dark bodies swaying forwards and backwards in it. Umuru then was the meeting place of the forest people who were called Igbo and the alien riverain folk whom the Igbo called Olu and beyond whom the world stretched in indefiniteness.

Julius Obi was not a native of Umuru. He had come like countless others from some bush village inland. Having passed his Standard Six in a mission school he had come to Umuru to work as a clerk in the offices of the all-powerful European trading company which bought palm-kernels at its own price and sold cloth and metalware, also at its own price. The offices were situated beside the famous market so that in his first two or three weeks Julius had to learn to work within its huge enveloping hum. Sometimes when the Chief Clerk was away he walked to the window and looked down on the vast anthill activity. Most of these people were not there yesterday, he thought, and yet the market had been just as full. There must be many, many people in the world to be able to fill the market day after day like this. Of course they say not all who came to the great market were real people. Janet's mother, Ma, had said so.

"Some of the beautiful young women you see squeezing through the crowds are not people like you or me but mammy-wota who have their town in the depths of the river," she said. "You can always tell them, because they are beautiful with a beauty that is too perfect and too cold. You catch a glimpse of her with the tail of your eye, then you blink and look properly, but she has already vanished in the crowd."

Julius thought about these things as he now stood at the window looking down on the silent, empty market. Who would have believed that the great boisterous market could ever be quenched like this? But such was the strength of Kitikpa, the incarnate power of smallpox. Only he could drive away all those people and leave the market to the flies.

When Umuru was a little village, there was an age-grade who swept its market-square every Nkwo day. But progress had turned it into a busy, sprawling, crowded and dirty river port, a no-man's-land where strangers outnumbered by far the sons of the soil, who could do nothing about it except shake their heads at this gross perversion of their prayer. For indeed they had prayed—who will blame them—for their town to grow and prosper. And it had grown. But there is good growth and there is bad growth. The belly does not bulge out only with food and drink; it might be the abominable disease which would end by sending its sufferer out of the house even before he was fully dead.

The strangers who came to Umuru came for trade and money, not in search of duties to perform, for they had those in plenty back home in their village which was real home.

And as if this did not suffice, the young sons and daughters of Umuru soil, encouraged by schools and churches were behaving no better than the strangers. They neglected all their old tasks and kept only the revelries. Such was the state of the town when Kitikpa came to see it and to demand the sacrifice the inhabitants owed the gods of the soil. He came in confident knowledge of the terror he held over the people. He was an evil deity, and boasted it. Lest he be offended those he killed were not killed but decorated, and no one dared weep for them. He put an end to the coming and going between neighbours and between villages. They said, "Kitikpa is in that village," and immediately it was cut off by its neighbours.

Julius was sad and worried because it was almost a week since he had seen Janet, the girl he was going to marry. Ma had explained to him very gently that he should no longer go to see them "until this thing is over, by the power of Jehovah." (Ma was a very devout Christian convert and one reason why she approved of Julius for her only daughter was that he sang in the choir of the CMS church.)

"You must keep to your rooms," she had said in hushed tones, for Kitikpa strictly forbade any noise or boisterousness. "You never know whom you might meet on the streets. That family has got it." She lowered her voice even more and pointed surreptitiously at the house across the road whose doorway was barred with a yellow palm-frond. "He has decorated one of them already and the rest were moved away today in a big government lorry."

Janet walked a short way with Julius and stopped; so he stopped too. They seemed to have nothing to say to each other yet they lingered on. Then she said goodnight and he said goodnight. And they shook hands, which was very odd, as though parting for the night were something new and grave.

He did not go straight home, because he wanted desperately to cling, even alone, to this strange parting. Being educated he was not afraid of whom he might meet, so he went to the bank of the river and just walked up and down it. He must have been there a long time because he was still there when the wooden gong of the night-mask sounded. He immediately set out for home, half-walking and half-running, for night-masks were not a matter of superstition; they were real. They chose the night for their revelry because like the bat's their ugliness was great.

In his hurry he stepped on something that broke with a slight liquid explosion. He stopped and peeped down at the footpath. The moon was not up yet but there was a faint light in the sky which showed that it would not be long delayed. In this half-light he saw that he had stepped on an egg offered in sacrifice. Someone oppressed by misfortune had brought the offering to the crossroads in the dusk. And he had stepped on it. There were the usual young palm-fronds around it. But Julius saw it differently as a house where the terrible artist was at work. He wiped the sole of his foot on the sandy path and hurried away, carrying another vague worry in his mind. But hurrying was no use now; the fleet-footed mask was already abroad. Perhaps it was impelled to hurry by

the threatening imminence of the moon. Its voice rose high and clear in the still night air like a flaming sword. It was yet a long way away, but Julius knew that distances vanished before it. So he made straight for the cocoyam farm beside the road and threw himself on his belly, in the shelter of the broad leaves. He had hardly done this when he heard the rattling staff of the spirit and a thundering stream of esoteric speech. He shook all over. The sounds came bearing down on him, almost pressing his face into the moist earth. And now he could hear the footsteps. It was as if twenty evil men were running together. Panic sweat broke all over him and he was nearly impelled to get up and run. Fortunately he kept a firm hold on himself . . . In no time at all the commotion in the air and on the earth—the thunder and torrential rain, the earthquake and flood—passed and disappeared in the distance on the other side of the road. The next morning, at the office the Chief Clerk, a son of the soil spoke bitterly about last night's provocation of Kitikpa by the headstrong youngsters who had launched the noisy fleet-footed mask in defiance of their elders, who knew that Kitikpa would be enraged, and then . . .

The trouble was that the disobedient youths had never yet experienced the power of Kitikpa themselves; they had only heard of it. But soon they would learn.

As Julius stood at the window looking out on the emptied market he lived through the terror of that night again. It was barely a week ago but already it seemed like another life, separated from the present by a vast emptiness. This emptiness deepened with every passing day. On this side of it stood Julius, and on the other Ma and Janet whom the dread artist decorated.

Before I Loved You

Carolyn Lewis

What do you make of that? That’s what I wanted to ask you when I saw two women on the Downs today. Everything they wore was black: their plump legs were squeezed into

leggings and they both wore polo-necked sweaters and a tabard tunic. Even their shoes were black. They were throwing chunks of bread to a flock of birds and, as the women threw the bread, the birds jostled and fought, trying to catch each piece before it hit the ground. It looked such an odd picture to me: the sky full of black-winged screaming birds, and the two women dressed in black, silently feeding them.

Where did the women come from? Was that a uniform they wore? One of the women, had thick, blonde streaks in her hair and wore a lot of make-up: glittery blue eye shadow, lips glistened with a scarlet gloss. The birds’ beaks were wide open, searching for the bread, their raucous shrieks splitting the air and the women’s mouth gaped open, mirroring the beaks of the birds as they hurled the bread into the skies.

When all the bread was gone the women walked slowly in silence back to their car. They strapped themselves in, their heads almost touching as they bent over seat belts. Then they drove off, a dull, grey cloud of exhaust fumes trailing behind, like a tired flag.

What do you make of that? I wanted to ask you, to hear what your answer would be. Then we’d have talked about what the women did and why were they so silent? We’d make up stories about them. Where did they live and in what sort of houses? We’d have fantasised about affairs, joked about steamed-up windows and passionate embraces on the back seats of family saloons. There would be empty Coke cans on the dashboard, crisp packets in the glove compartment. We’d have invented lives for those women, the bird women up on the Downs. That’s what we would have done.

I still talk to you. Wherever I go the conversations rattle around in my head. You came with me on the Downs; we looked at the changing colours of the leaves, we watched the joggers, grinned as they puffed their way past us. I hear your voice in my head the whole time. When I sat in the dentist’s chair, are you ok? Did that hurt? You are with me when I went shopping, because I could ask you things, things like What about fish for tea? You were there when I tried clothes on in the changing rooms of posh department stores, peering out from behind curtains, the ones with the gaps at the side, what do you think of this? Do I need a bigger size? You are always with me, but only in my head.

It started the first day I met you, when your hand stretched out to touch mine.

“Hello,” you said and then you smiled, the lines around your eyes deepening and hinting at something. Your smile came with me, I took it wherever I went, carrying it in my head, on the bus home, lying in bed, tucking it underneath my pillow.

I imagined you at home at night, living in a flat,drinking beer from cans and never, ever, did I see you with another girl. What do you do on Saturday nights? Where do you go? Can I come with you? Having you inside my head made me brave, bold, asking questions because there was no fear of rejection. I began to tell you all about my life at home, my mum, my dad, the fights I had with my sister. She borrows my clothes and steals my friends. She couldn’t steal you, you were mine and nobody knew about

you. You always understood, you were my ally, my secret friend.

I spent my days watching you, watching your long strides through the corridors. I heard the creak of your leather jacket as you stretched up to push the hair out of your eyes. Your hair needs cutting, or do you like it that long? All through those long working day at my first job, a newspaper office full of stories of courtroom battles football matches, golden wedding anniversaries and murders, I watched you and told you all about my dreams. Things I had never mentioned to anyone before. You listened to me, listened to all the words I carried with me.

Our working days were frantic, exhilarating and fraught. Working alongside you, phones rang incessantly, shouted arguments ricocheted around the room. Whenever I passed you, rushing from one desk to another, papers flying, my heels clicking on the floor, I wanted your approval, I needed your approval. How am I doing? What do you think of this?

Don’t you see, I thought I already knew you.

Then, tentatively, gently and so softly you began smiling at me. A look from you across the room made the day sunny. I could smile at you too and then I began to know you. We laughed together, we exchanged glances when a new story broke, we shared confidences and then we really did begin to talk. When you were inside my head my words had bounced, they sparkled, they were light, precise and so clever and I grew afraid that outside, away from my secret world, you’d find my words dull, heavy and slow. I wanted to keep you inside. You were safe there, I was safe there, I was strong.

But then, working on a murder story, a front page drama harrowing in every detail, quite suddenly you asked,

“Fancy a drink?”

My voice, quiet and hesitant: `Yes, please.’ I’d thought my inner conversations with you had taught me all there was to know. But, locked inside my head was only a tiny part of you. We began to discover each other and you talked, really talked, to me. Your words were clear and strong, they encouraged me, taught me to think and argue, they gave me confidence and strength. When you were inside, locked away in my head, all that time I talked to you, my words had been sharpened, now they were like swords, shiny, steel-edged. I cut through arguments, slashed away at my fear and nervousness. With you I could shine. My confidence soared.

You spoke to me of travelling. Africa, America, driving through France, the Swiss Alps, and your words brought the world into my head. When you spoke, I could see everything, smell the sea, touch the flowers. I could taste the local wine and feel the heat.

“Come with me, I want you to see these places with me.” Before you, the world was what I could see or touch. With you I could go anywhere. You said it all the time,

“There’s nothing to stop you.” Nothing did stop me and I moved into your strong, confident world.

“Look at this, look at the view,” I said all the time, all the time we travelled together, forgetting that you had seen it before. What I meant to say was, look at it now, with me.

You were right, you’d been right all along. I could do it. talked wherever we went, sitting up late in a smoky French bar, walking back to our hotel through night-dulled skies. Driving over mountain passes, tramping through snowfilled fields. We sailed past the Statue of Liberty, my gaze holding yours as the ferryboat moved alongside.

We invented lives for the people we saw around us; the couples sitting in uneasy silence, the women whose faces were slick with unaccustomed make-up, the solitary man in a busy restaurant, fingers tugging and turning at a worn wedding band. Newly together, happiness freshly minted, arrogance born from our delight, we gave new lives to those around us. We proffered happiness to others, changed lives, giving hope and excitement, making a difference. We were together, invincible, unique. No one has ever felt like this – how could they? We fitted together, two halves of a magical being. We invested some of our magic, we could afford to, we had so much.

Before I loved you, you’d been my ally, my secret friend. Now that I loved you, you gave me even more, more strength, more courage. Working together, our days were heady and full. Our careers grew, my confidence, long lost and stunted became strong. I was assigned to cover major news stories and my opinion was sought, my views were listened to. I echoed your words, I can do this. My name appeared in print, I was praised for my work, my professionalism, my skill.

Watch me! Like a child calling out for parental approval, I still needed your mantle of protection. What do you think of this? Does this work? Tell me! Am I any good?

Your words assured me. They nurtured and strengthened me and then, slowly, for the first time in my life, I began to recognise my own strength. You’d known all the time what I could do. “Just do it,” you counselled, “don’t ask, just do it.” And I did. Weeks travelled so fast, my life changed as fast as I changed. But not you. Why could I not see that you remained the same?

Tell me what to do. My newly honed confidence had been noticed and I was approached. A prominent newspaper, spoken about in reverential whispers, dangled titles and money: features editor, chief reporter, take your pick.

What shall I do? Tell me what to do. You were solid, an island as I began the storm. I moved around you, crashing, whirling, demanding. Tell me!

`Do what you want to do - stay here or go.’

`If I go, will you come with me? Come with me!’

You shook your head, your long blond hair tumbling around your face, hiding your eyes. No, you choose. Make your own decisions. I can’t help you with this one.

Before I loved you my choices were hollow. My world was small, contained and narrow. But now? But now I wavered, my new strength seeping, leaving me. Help me, tell me what to do. You held me, your arms around my shoulders. I felt your warmth, your love. `Believe in yourself, make this decision on your own. Choose what’s right for you.’

Whilst you were hidden in my head, locked inside me, you shared my dreams, you’d listened with love and compassion but you didn’t listen now. You were tired of my tears and arguments, my sulking silences and demands. I grew angry, stamping like a petulant child, my anger growing in its intensity. You’d let me down, you wouldn’t help me any more. I had to do this on my own. I would do it on my own. I didn’t need you, they wanted me not you.

“I don’t need you.” The words hung in the air, they shimmered over our heads like violent heat, warping feelings and what I wanted to say to you. I wanted to whisper, I’m sorry. I needed to retrieve what I’d lost, what had been damaged. You knew that, your face with its lopsided smile, the long hair flying around, the understanding in your eyes. You knew. All that time that you were locked inside my head, all that time before I loved you, all those times when I talked to you. You were talking to me now. I heard the unspoken dialogue, the silent words. You knew. You knew what I wanted to say, but you wouldn’t let me say it. You left me with that.

You left me at the station, a strained goodbye, eyes not meeting, a hurried embrace. We both knew but you wouldn’t let me voice it. I’m sorry, let me put it right.

Those whispered words were finally drowned by the scream of the train. Leaving you.

My new life was busy, shiny-bright with promises. New friends, new stories, a new life in a world crowding into the spaces where you used to be. I filled those spaces and I was sought after, lauded, I was in demand. Look at me, see what I can do now. But you couldn’t see me, you weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere, not locked inside my head because you’d gone from there too. I couldn’t find you.

I don’t need you! I’d shouted, yelled those words at you. But I did need you. My new world was brittle, new friendships shallow, glitter blinded me. I didn’t see the hollows underneath. Their lights shone, beacons for me to follow. Promises of success, excitement, fast heady lives. Empty lives. There was nothing there, nothing underneath.

Where are you?

I tried to reach you, to phone, to talk to you. You’d gone. I’m sorry, please talk to me. I was wrong and I made a mistake. I watched others at parties, in restaurants, smiling when eyes met mine. I sent you messages, secret codes, hidden away again, locked inside my head. You didn’t hear me, the words echoed, my new life echoed too. There were only hollow sounds. I’ve made a mistake. I’m sorry.

I came back to find you. Where are you? Travelling back, listening to the rhythmic wheels of the train, sitting still, eyes closed, words tumbling in my head. Where are you?

I go to the places we knew. Your flat is empty and cold, the Downs are bleak, dead leaves rattle at my feet. The newsroom is noisy, energetic, desks are crowded and the phones ring out constantly but I can’t see you. I don’t hear the creak of your leather jacket, I don’t see you striding to greet me. I can’t see you. Where are you?

I close my eyes again, squeezing the lids tight, banishing light from my inside my head, leaving only room for you. Can you hear me?

I choose words, testing, discarding. I need words that will reach you, find you.

Can you hear me? Where are you?

Source: Rachel Loosmore: Sexy Shorts for Lovers: A collection of short stories

Guiding questions

The following questions are guiding to comprehend the story.

1. What is the main character of this story?

2. What is the point of view of this story?

3. What happened to the main character?

4. What is meant by the words With you I could shine ?

5. Is this story happe neding or sad ending?

6.

Maria Concepcion

Katherine Anne Porter

Maria Concepcion walked carefully, keeping to the middle of the white dusty road, where the maguey thorns and the treacherous curved spines of organ cactus had not gathered so profusely. She would have enjoyed resting for a moment in the dark shade by the roadside, but she had no time to waste drawing cactus needles from her feet. Juan and his chief would be waiting for their food in the damp trenches of the buried city.

She carried about a dozen living fowls slung over her right shoulder, their feet fastened together. Half of them fell upon the flat of her back, the balance dangled uneasily over her breast. They wriggled their benumbed and swollen legs against her neck, they twisted their stupefied eyes and peered into her face inquiringly. She did not see them or think of them. Her left arm was tired with the weight of the food basket, and she was hungry after her long morning’s work.

Her straight back outlined itself strongly under her clean bright blue cotton rebozo. Instinctive serenity softened her black eyes, shaped like almonds, set far apart, and tilted a bit endwise. She walked with the free, natural, guarded ease of the primitive

woman carrying an unborn child. The shape of her body was easy, the swelling life was not a distortion, but the right inevitable proportions of a woman. She was entirely contented. Her husband was at work and she was on her way to market to sell her fowls.

Her small house sat half-way up a shallow hill, under a clump of pepper-trees, a wall of organ cactus enclosing it on the side nearest to the road. Now she came down into the valley, divided by the narrow spring, and crossed a bridge of loose stones near the hut where Maria Rosa the beekeeper lived with her old godmother, Lupe the medicine woman. Maria Concepcion had no faith in the charred owl bones, the singed rabbit fur, the cat entrails, the messes and ointments sold by Lupe to the ailing of the village. She was a good Christian, and drank simple herb teas for headache and stomachache, or bought her remedies bottled, with printed directions that she could not read, at the drugstore near the city market, where she went almost daily. But she often bought a jar of honey from young Maria Rosa, a pretty, shy child only fifteen years old.

Maria Concepcion and her husband, Juan Villegas, were each a little past their eighteenth year. She had a good reputation with the neighbors as an energetic religious woman who could drive a bargain to the end. It was commonly known that if she wished to buy a new rebozo for herself or a shirt for Juan, she could bring

out a sack of hard silver coins for the purpose.

She had paid for the license, nearly a year ago, the potent bit of stamped paper which permits people to be married in the church. She had given money to the priest before she and Juan walked together up to the altar the Monday after Holy Week. It had been the adventure of the villagers to go, three Sundays one after another, to hear the banns called by the priest for Juan de Dios Villegas and Maria Concepcion Manriquez, who were actually getting married in the church, instead of behind it, which was the usual custom, less expensive, and as binding as any other ceremony. But Maria Concepcion was always as proud as if she owned a hacienda.

She paused on the bridge and dabbled her feet in the water, her eyes resting themselves from the sun-rays in a fixed gaze to the far-off mountains, deeply blue under their hanging drift of clouds. It came to her that she would like a fresh crust of honey. The delicious aroma of bees, their slow thrilling hum, awakened a pleasant desire for a flake of sweetness in her mouth.

“If I do not eat it now, I shall mark my child,” she thought, peering through the crevices in the thick hedge of cactus that sheered up nakedly, like bared knife blades set protectingly around the small clearing. The place was so silent she doubted if Maria Rosa and Lupe were at home.

The leaning jacal of dried rush-withes and corn sheaves, boundto tall saplings thrust into the earth, roofed with yellowed maguey leaves flattened and overlapping like shingles, hunched drowsy and fragrant in the warmth of noonday. The hives, similarly made, were scattered towards the back of the clearing, like small mounds of clean vegetable refuse. Over each mound there hung a dusty golden shimmer of bees.

A light gay scream of laughter rose from behind the hut; a man’s short laugh joined in. “Ah, hahahaha!” went the voices together high and low, like a song.

“So Maria Rosa has a man!” Maria Concepcion stopped short, smiling, shifted her burden slightly, and bent forward shading her eyes to see more clearly through the spaces of the hedge.

Maria Rosa ran, dodging between beehives, parting two stunted jasmine bushes as she came, lifting her knees in swift leaps, looking over her shoulder and laughing in a quivering, excited way. A heavy jar, swung to her wrist by the handle, knocked against her thighs as she ran. Her toes pushed up sudden spurts of dust, her half-raveled braids showered around her shoulders in long crinkled wisps.

Juan Villegas ran after her, also laughing strangely, his teeth set, both rows gleaming behind the small soft black beard growing sparsely on his lips, his chin, leaving his brown cheeks girlsmooth. When he seized her, he clenched so hard her chemise gave way and ripped from her shoulder. She stopped laughing at this, pushed him away and stood silent, trying to pull up the torn sleeve with one hand. Her pointed chin and dark red mouth moved in an uncertain way, as if she wished to laugh again; her long black lashes flickered with the quick-moving lights in her hidden eyes.

Maria Concepcion did not stir nor breathe for some seconds. Her forehead was cold, and yet boiling water seemed to be pouring slowly along her spine. An unaccountable pain was in her knees, as if they were broken. She was afraid Juan and Maria Rosa would feel her eyes fixed upon them and would find her there, unable to move, spying upon them. But they did not pass beyond the enclosure, nor even glance towards the gap in the wall opening upon the road.

Juan lifted one of Maria Rosa’s loosened braids and slapped her neck with it playfully. She smiled softly, consentingly. Together they moved back through the hives of honey-comb. Maria Rosa balanced her jar on one hip and swung her long full petticoats with every step. Juan flourished his wide hat back and forth, walking proudly as a game-cock.

Maria Concepcion came out of the heavy cloud which enwrapped her head and bound her throat, and found herself walking onward, keeping the road without knowing it, feeling her way delicately, her ears strumming as if all Maria Rosa’s bees had hived in them. Her careful sense of duty kept her moving toward the buried city where Juan’s chief, the American archaeologist, was taking his midday rest, waiting for his food.

Juan and Maria Rosa! She burned all over now, as if a layer of tiny fig-cactus bristles, as cruel as spun glass, had crawled under her skin. She wished to sit down quietly and wait for her death, but not until she had cut the throats of her man and that girl who were laughing and kissing under the cornstalks. Once when she was a young girl she had come back from market to find her jacal burned to a pile of ash and her few silver coins gone. A dark empty feeling had filled her; she kept moving about the place, not believing her eyes, expecting it all to take shape again before her. But it was gone, and though she knew an enemy had done it, she could not find out who it was, and could only curse and threaten the air. Now here was a worse thing, but she knew her enemy. Maria Rosa, that sinful girl, shameless! She heard herself saying a harsh, true word about Maria Rosa, saying it aloud as if she expected someone to agree with her: “Yes, she is a whore! She has no right to live.”

At this moment the gray untidy head of Givens appeared over the edges of the newest trench he had caused to be dug in his field of excavations. The long deep crevasses, in which a man mighttand without being seen, lay crisscrossed like orderly gashes of a giant scalpel. Nearly all of the men of the community worked for Givens, helping him to uncover the lost city of their ancestors. They worked all the year through and prospered, digging every day for those small clay heads and bits of pottery and fragments of painted walls for which there was no good use on earth, being all broken and encrusted with clay. They themselves could make better ones, perfectly stout and new, which they took to town and peddled to foreigners for real money. But the unearthly delight of the chief in finding these worn-out things was an endless puzzle. He would fairly roar for joy at times, waving a shattered pot or a human skull above his head, shouting for his photographer to come and make a picture of this!

Now he emerged, and his young enthusiast’s eyes welcomed Maria Concepcion from his old-man face, covered with hard wrinkles and burned to the color of red earth. “I hope you’ve brought me a nice fat one.” He selected a fowl from the bunch dangling nearest him as Maria Concepcion, wordless, leaned over the trench. “Dress it for me, there’s a good girl. I’ll broil it.”

Maria Concepcion took the fowl by the head, and silently, swiftly drew her knife across its throat, twisting the head off with the casual firmness she might use with the top of a beet.

“Good God, woman, you do have nerve,” said Givens, watching her. “I can’t do that. It gives me the creeps.” “My home country is Guadalajara,” explained Maria Concepcion, without bravado, as she picked and gutted the fowl.

She stood and regarded Givens condescendingly, that diverting white man who had no woman of his own to cook for him, and moreover appeared not to feel any loss of dignity in preparing his own food. He squatted now, eyes squinted, nose wrinkled to avoid the smoke, turning the roasting fowl busily on a stick. A mysterious man, undoubtedly rich, and Juan’s chief, therefore to be respected, to be placated.

“The tortillas are fresh and hot, senor,” she murmured gently.

“With your permission I will now go to market.”

“Yes, yes, run along; bring me another of these tomorrow.”

Givens turned his head to look at her again. Her grand manner sometimes reminded him of royalty in exile. He noticed her unnatural paleness. “The sun is too hot, eh?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Pardon me, but Juan will be here soon?”

“He ought to be here now. Leave his food. The others will eat it.”

She moved away; the blue of her rebozo became a dancing spot in the heat waves that rose from the gray-red soil. Givens liked his Indians best when he could feel a fatherly indulgence for their primitive childish ways. He told comic stories of Juan’s escapades, of how often he had saved him, in the past five years, from going to jail, and even from being shot, for his varied and always unexpected misdeeds.

“I am never a minute too soon to get him out of one pickle or another,” he would say. “Well, he’s a good worker, and I know how to manage him.”

After Juan was married, he used to twit him, with exactly the right shade of condescension, on his many infidelities to Maria Concepcion. “She’ll catch you yet, and God help you!” he wasfond of saying, and Juan would laugh with immense pleasure.

It did not occur to Maria Concepcion to tell Juan she had found him out. During the day her anger against him died, and her anger against Maria Rosa grew. She kept saying to herself, “When I was a young girl like Maria Rosa, if a man had caught hold of me so, I would have broken my jar over his head.” She forgot completely that she had not resisted even so much as Maria Rosa, on the day that Juan had first taken hold of her. Besides she had married him afterwards in the church, and that was a very different thing.

Juan did not come home that night, but went away to war and Maria Rosa went with him. Juan had a rifle at his shoulder and two pistols at his belt. Maria Rosa wore a rifle also, slung on her back along with the blankets and the cooking pots. They joined the nearest detachment of troops in the field, and Maria Rosa marched ahead with the battalion of experienced women of war, which went over the crops like locusts, gathering provisions for the army. She cooked with them, and ate with them what was left after the men had eaten. After battles she went out on the field with the others to salvage clothing and ammunition and guns from the slain before they should begin to swell in the heat. Sometimes they would encounter the women from the other army, and a second battle as grim as the first would take place.

There was no particular scandal in the village. People shrugged, grinned. It was far better that they were gone. The neighbors went around saying that Maria Rosa was safer in the army than she would be in the same village with Maria Concepcion.

Maria Concepcion did not weep when Juan left her; and when the baby was born, and died within four days, she did not weep.

“She is mere stone,” said old Lupe, who went over and offered charms to preserve the baby.

“May you rot in hell with your charms,” said Maria Concepcion. If she had not gone so regularly to church, lighting candles before the saints, kneeling with her arms spread in the form of a cross for hours at a time, and receiving holy communion every month, there might have been talk of her being devil-possessed, her face was so hanged and blind-looking. But this was impossible when, after all, she had been married by the priest. It must be, they reasoned, that she was being punished for her pride. They decided that this was the true cause for everything: she was altogether too proud. So they pitied her.

During the year that Juan and Maria Rosa were gone Maria Concepcion sold her fowls and looked after her garden and her sack of hard coins grew. Lupe had no talent for bees, and the hives did not prosper. She began to blame Maria Rosa for running away, and to praise Maria Concepcion for her behavior. She used to see Maria Concepcion at the market or at church, and she always said that no one could tell by looking at her now that she was a woman who had such a heavy grief.

“I pray God everything goes well with Maria Concepcion from this out,” she would say, “for she has had her share of trouble.”

When some idle person repeated this to the deserted woman, she went down to Lupe’s house and stood within the clearing and called to the medicine woman, who sat in her doorway stirring a mess of her infallible cure for sores: “Keep your prayers to yourself, Lupe, or offer them for others who need them. I will ask God for what I want in this world.”

“And will you get it, you think, Maria Concepcion?” asked Lupe, tittering cruelly and smelling the wooden mixing spoon.

“Did you pray for what you have now?”

Afterward everyone noticed that Maria Concepcion went oftener to church, and even seldomer to the village to talk with the other women as thev sat alone the curb, nursing their babies and eating

But Maria Concepcion lived alone. She was gaunt, as if something were gnawing her away inside, her eyes were sunken, and she would not speak a word if she could help it. She worked harder than ever, and her butchering knife was scarcely ever out of her hand.

Juan and Maria Rosa, disgusted with military life, came home one day without asking permission of anyone. The field of war had unrolled itself, a long scroll of vexations, until the end had frayed out within twenty miles of Juan’s village. So he and Maria Rosa, now lean as a wolf, burdened with a child daily expected, set out with no farewells to the regiment and walked home.

They arrived one morning about daybreak. Juan was picked up on sight by a group of military police from the small barracks on the edge of town, and taken to prison, where the officer in charge told him with impersonal cheerfulness that he would add one to a catch of ten waiting to be shot as deserters the next morning.

Maria Rosa, screaming and falling on her face in the road, was taken under the armpits by two guards and helped briskly to her jacal, now sadly run down. She was received with professional importance by Lupe, who helped the baby to be born at once.

Limping with foot soreness, a layer of dust concealing his fine new clothes got mysteriously from somewhere, Juan appeared before the captain at the barracks. The captain recognized him as head digger for his good friend Givens, and dispatched a note to Givens saying: “I am holding the person of Juan Villegas awaiting

your further disposition.”

When Givens showed up Juan was delivered to him with the urgent request that nothing be made public about so humane and sensible an operation on the part of military authority.

Juan walked out of the rather stifling atmosphere of the drumhead court, a definite air of swagger about him. His hat, of unreasonable dimensions and embroidered with silver thread, hung over one eyebrow, secured at the back by a cord of silver dripping with bright blue tassels. His shirt was of a checkerboard pattern in green and black, his white cotton trousers were bound by a belt of yellow leather tooled in red. His feet were bare, full of stone bruises, and sadly ragged as to toenails.